


Hope In Heartland

by Bugamortis



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Announcer Dirk, Bulls are a poetic representation of the narrative, Clown Dynamics, Heartland episodes as chapter titles, Jake is a clown :(, M/M, Minor Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam, Minor Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket, My little pony ranch-life logic, Rodeo Competitions, bastardizations of the commedia dell'arte, plus doodles!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugamortis/pseuds/Bugamortis
Summary: Dirkjake Rodeo Clown x Rodeo announcer AU doubling as a Heartland AU in which Dirk drags his heels through metaphorical sand and Jake is just here for a good time and whatever it is Rose agreed to pay him.Written as a semi-believable B-plot romance storyline focusing on Dirk and Jake over the course of a fictional season of Heartland that would be featuring Rose as the main character.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Kudos: 5





	Hope In Heartland

**Author's Note:**

> Huge Enormous thank you to [Akgerhardt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akgerhardt/pseuds/akgerhardt) for proofreading this chapter!!! It was absolutely so kind and so helpful and encouraging and this would have been borderline illegible if it were not for his superhuman ability to catch typos.
> 
> Originally written for day 7 of Dirkjakeweek-Cowboys, but I missed the deadline and then zoned out for 2 months! Big thanks to the Djweek server for being extremely cool and encouraging and for being the push I needed to get into writing. 
> 
> Massive credit specifically to Heroboof for doing a looot of Rosevrisrezi/Heartland centric brainstorming,  
> [C4LIC4T](https://archiveofourown.org/users/C4LIC4T/pseuds/C4LIC4T) for telling me what a horse is, and Elsenborn on Tumblr for making some really really cool drawings and also letting me plagiarize details from its boyfriend!

Dirk Strider was doing fine. Dirk Strider was doing great, actually. Dirk Strider was having a lot of fun back home working on his little sister’s ranch, and was definitely not getting lonely and stir-crazy in the sweltering box of his rodeo-announcer’s booth… He wasn't.

Sunlight dimmed as a sparse crowd filed out of the ‘Hortus Qua Suite Maplehoof' rodeo arena. The warm lamps on the corners of the gate flickered on.

Dirk Strider trudged down the last couple of steps of the announcer’s booth, exhausted, chugging water and rubbing the crick of his neck. There was a crack, and he winced. Unbeknownst to him, his terrible sister was sneaking up behind him.

“So!” she chirped, latching her claws into his shoulders. “Would you suppose it was safe to call that a dumpster fire?”

He choked. “Agh, what the fuck, Rose?” He couldn’t escape like this.

She sighed and leaned back, freeing her hands in order to re-grip her appropriately out-of-place parasol. She gave it a (somehow?) menacing twirl. “Did you make it your mission today to tonelessly narrate the flaming viscera of the Hindenburg disaster? Or would that be too grand a metaphor for the show we just put on? … No, it’d be a miracle if we could get the warm sack of trash to spark, let alone explode. That, I believe, is more reminiscent of slowly rotting garbage.” Her lips tightened at the corners in a wry grimace. Her elbow rested in her hand, fingers propping up her forehead and parasol squeezed between her arm and her torso. There was a stubborn crease between her eyebrows.

“Wow, okay, you try ‘sparking up’ a grand ol' two hours of literal horseshit and see if you can hack it any better. I don’t know why you’re scowling at me when it was the horses that Broc’d their way through the entire show. And of course by the entire show, I mean a solid half of it before they thought, ‘You know what? Fuck it,’ and quit. Even the lambs were miserable today. I think I saw one puffing a stogie before the show, actually. It stomped it out with its little lamb hoof, but it's concerning a youth like that would be driven to smoke at all at a time like this.  
If anything, I was the heart and soul of that show; I was nursing it to health. I was that show’s fragile seventeenth-century mother, who could do nothing but lay in my satins to conserve mine energy as I gave my baby my all, wrought and weakening with grief as the light started to flicker out of its nubile eyes more and more each day. All I can do is pray the bankroller takes mercy on me, and make the absolute best of what's available.”

“And what a wonderful job you did! I could see the audience’s spirits rising the moment you circled into your third round of Fun Horse Facts, only minutely cut into by your complaining about chores. I could really feel the children’s eyes light up when you inspired them in the ways of becoming a big cool cowboy. One who fixes fences and cleans tack for hours on end, then heads straight to bed to take notes on the Wikipedia page for horses just in case. I could tell they were just as anxious to start their magical ‘hooting and hollering ranching adventure’ as they were pawing at the gates to get back to their cars halfway through the show.

“Okay, wait a fucking minute; I’m not sure what you were expecting me to do here. Would you have preferred me spouting off some riddles? Or I could start a bookclub, if that’s what you wanted. Maybe we could throw in a bridge tournament during the intermission? That would already be more interesting than our acts.”

“I would like you to act like you’ve slept for at least a full 8 hours sometime in the past week. Or, if you wanted to go just a little bit wild with it, pretend you were having fun at all during any point in the show.”

Behind them, Hal, Dave, and Roxy had already started sweeping down the bleachers for left-over candies and garbage. Hal found a half-eaten bag of skittles and started to shovel them into his mouth before Roxy snatched it out of his hand, shot him a glare, and swallowed down a couple.

“Right, like you haven’t been sulking behind the bleachers for the past 3 hours... Actually, I changed my mind, it is you who has been acting like a 17th century housewife. One who won’t admit she’s taken ill, and drably yet beautifully describes her precious flower garden- the one she can now only watch wilt through the window, should the pollen take her. You’re going to get hysteria soon enough, if all it takes is rainy weather and a couple yawning children during a rodeo show for you to turn into a wilting, inarticulate bitch.”

Wait. No. Shit.

Rose’s eyes snapped up. “A bitch?”

“Uh.” The water bottle made a cheery ‘kerplunk!’ sound as it hit the dirt.

“You.. think I'm behaving like a bitch?”

“No, wait-“

Rose let her face fall into her hands. “No no, hold your tongue... You’re right. Perhaps I have been letting my passions get a hold of me. Perhaps I am too invested in our dear darling family owned independent rodeo show. Perhaps I should instead follow in the footsteps of our dear siblings and leave this life behind, if it means I may one day be cured of my overbearing hysteria. What a bitch am I!”

“Eurr-“ Dirk sputtered, firmly out of his depth. He’d taken a double-twirl pirouette off the diving board into a gaping nuclear cavern-turned-swimming pool. “Of course not- No, you know that's not what I meant-“

“Pain! There's no need to let it go now, Dirk. I’m so glad you’ve brought this to my attention, that you have the bond and the comfort with me now to really be… brutally honest with me. I’ll pack my bags immediately, and leave you to do with the show as you like,” she sniffed, snapping her head away.

“Hold on-”

“No, no! Truly. I… Oh, this is silly, but I was just about to get all swept up in helping you and fixing our show! I’m so glad you cut me off before then to inform me that I am no longer needed here! I’ll be seeing you~!”

Rose spun on her toes to leave, spinning her parasol with performative flair. Dirk huffed and stomped through the dirt to march beside her back to their cramped house.

“Though I’m sure your travel plans are extremely important at 4pm on a Tuesday, you’re not going to get out of cleanup like this.”

He gestured back to the arena, where half-empty snack wrappers and soda cups were strewn over the bleachers, and the last couple barrels still needed rolling back into the… barrel spot. Rose did not look back, but her lips twitched just a hint upwards.

“Well, you see, I was planning on participating in the chores, and I do agree that someone has to do them-“ She gave him a look, glancing between him and the ring they’d left behind… “I can make sure they’re done later, of course.. by the end of the day.”  
She knew full well that Dirk wasn’t about to leave the equipment strewn about until then. Before he could actually get back to it, though, she stopped him. “But don’t get to it just yet! I forgot I actually did have to tell you something.”

Dirk wheezed as the collar of his stupid puffy jacket got yanked back. She had a vice grip, like a mother cat holding a kitten by the scruff. “Yu- what?” He choked.

“I’ve had a change of heart! Though really, my flight ought to be taking off any minute now.” She checked her wrist. She was not wearing a watch. “So please, while I have the time, listen well, for it may be the last you ever hear of me.”

Dirk grumbled and swatted her hand away from his jacket. He turned back around, slouching his shoulders as petulantly as a grown man could without being considered a manchild by the greater societal hivemind. He nearly pouted. Rose seemed pleased by this.

“I’ve been thinking about our show.”

“My show-”

“Our show.”

His mouth flattened into a line.

“I’ve been thinking about our show recently. It's just been flittering around my mind a bit; it's become undeniable that at this rate, we’re ruined.”

At this, Dirks eyebrows crept up. Just a fraction.

“Ever since Vriska’s grating little pony show arrived in town, we’ve been losing our regulars by the day. No longer do the schoolchildren dream of coming to our sweet, homey, heart-filled display of skill and beauty. They’re poisoned. Poisoned by the allure of their names in lights. Er, of seeing the names of showhorses in lights, rather. What commercial garden of earthly delights, what pantheon of Eden, what sniveling mimesis of rodeo-induced wonders are powerful enough to turn our good, loyal townfolk away from us?”

Dirks eyebrows are now situated firmly at the top of his forehead. His mouth remains flattened, and his eyes are unreadable.

“A, uh, nasty one?”

“A clever one! There’s no way they’d find this much success if they weren’t lugging around a painfully obvious bag of tricks. A bag of tricks that, at some point, overflows to where they're sticking over the top and becoming obvious to those around it. It's easy for a pickpocket to work her magic when the pocket's already spilling crumbs.”

This is unlike Rose. She was never so... poetic about her rivalries. Not to say it didn’t suit her, but it was almost unsettling.

Dirk sighed, “So you’re going to copy whatever disgusting, hack-job, no-good scam the Scourge Sisters are running before they high-tail it out of town and you’re left to Google shady marketing strategies like a normal megalomaniac.”

“I’d agree with you, but it doesn’t seem like they're very eager to leave, does it? Surely they’ve milked the town twice-over by now, so-“

Dirk flinched at the phrasing

“- they'll stay. Why... Kanaya and I have been talking, and she’s convinced it's to taunt us. I have to say, I’m starting to agree.”

They sat down on the porch steps to the ranch house, the barrels and cleanup forgotten, at least for the time being.

“And it's tricky to taunt someone actively leeching off your great ideas.”

“Exactly.”  
After a moment of contemplation, Dirk's brow furrowed and his back hunched over the soft wood of the porch.

“I… see. Okay, I can’t say i’m too attached to our current production setup. If you want to get me some of those big industrial lights, I don't think you’d find me arguing with you much there.”

“Thats wonderful to hear, Dirk. I’m glad I can count on you.”  
Rose’s expression softened after that. She seemed at least a little grateful that he was willing to go along with her on this one, especially with how silly and petty it was starting to feel in her head.

“We’re going to get you a clown.”

He was silent for about 3 seconds.

“Ha.”

“I got a recommendation from a reliable source for a clown today. I’m going to hire him.”

“Haha.”

“I’m serious, Dirk. I know you’ve snooped through their shows at least as half as much as I have. They’ve already accumulated at least 7 clowns.”

“Which are all capital-T Terrifying??? Have you forgotten? I’m pretty sure one of them made a kid cry... or killed someone. Honestly, it's very likely they killed someone.”

“They more than make up for it with audience engagement.”

“More than make up for killing someone?”

“For being the slightest bit unnerving!”

“We aren't getting a clown.”

“This is not a debate, as it's not your show. We are getting a clown and it is going to be a wonderful addition to our family-and-friends rodeo.”

“And friends?”

“The clown can be a friend.”

“I am not befriending a clown, Rose. Please, god, I ask for so little and I demand even less. Not getting a clown is quite frankly the bare minimum to do for me, dear sister.”

“If you don’t want me to hire a clown, I might have good news for you and your up-and-coming riddle segment.”

Dirk sucked in a breath between his teeth. He tensed, sitting up straight. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

He glared into her eyes. She didn’t wear shades like he did, and they were glinting, reflecting the gray brightness of the sky above.

“You’d look awfully cute in facepaint, I think.” He reared back as her unreadable gaze suddenly turned to something much more scrutinizing. Though her face remained relaxed, he could feel her taking invisible brain measurements and calculations for wig prices.

“Woah, woah, woah, hold up. Are you insinuating that I do not, in fact, look awfully cute now?” The sunless wet heat outside was sweltering. That's why he was sweating. Or it could be blamed on the knowledge that this was not an empty threat. Rose did not make empty threats. Last summer, she had Hal in full cow lingerie in order to make them more ‘marketable’ at the state-wide pony show after he teased her in front of Kanaya. “You know who needs the makeup, though? Hal. Hal already does some of the bullfighting. People like Hal!”

“Hal is busy.”

“Hal is never busy.”

“He gets all of his work done. I'm starting to think you think ranching is just bucking apples. I hate to break this to you for the fortieth time, but you don’t live on Sweet Apple Acres."

“I’ve figured as much, somehow, between the mosquitoes and the splinters and the phenomenon of horseshit spewing from both ends of the Rose. No, I don't think Applejack had to deal with the constant, imminent threat of their ranch being burned down the moment one of her catty sisters left their zippo in the leaves. I doubt the Apple Family Reunion consisted of one or more family members crying in separate closets while Applejack was stuck cleaning the vomit-stained china after the others left her in the kitchen to play Twister. I don't think Applejack had to worry about being forced to become buddy-buddy with Bozo the Clown because her dreadful sister decided they needed to impress the lesbians next door.”

“First of all, I don’t think Applebloom would have access to a zippo, and I also don’t think Applejack gets to spend most of her day inside on the computer watching puppet porn, Dirk. Not when Applebloom is busy making sure the family doesn’t starve after Big Mac left to be a superstar. Even then, I don’t think Applejack gets to make any serious demands on Rose Lalonde’s business ventures.”

“Not that you know. “

“Not that I know! Of course you could be right, but I also have to ask, Dirk, did you find it comfortable? Just now? Becoming Applejack for just a couple minutes?”

“Oh my god, no. We are not going there. We are making an immediate and final U-turn back to the clown thing. Or, lack thereof. There is no clown thing. I have never, nor will I ever, see a clown.”

“Well, I have got some good news for you! You might just get the chance! He’s set to come in first next week so you two can start rehearsing, though it should be minimal. He already knows what he’s doing. “

Dirk groaned. “The moment he walks through the gate, I’m going to pretend I'm deathly ill, have been taken hostage, and/or have just been the recipient of a kick to the head, and I will squawk like a chicken until he leaves.”

“And if you succeed, I have already purchased clown shoes. In orange! Just in case we’re suddenly short on staff.”

Dirk scowled and hunched again. “You are a terrible person. A monster, in fact.”

“They're in the living room.”

“I’m not going inside until you move them.”

“Ah, is your nasty fear of clowns rearing its head? In that case, I’ll hang them on the fridge, or perhaps the door to your room.”

His joints popped when he slouched again on the porch, stretching and rolling his neck a couple times until it cracked. He sucked in a deep breath and then rocked himself back up onto the ground. “Okay. I’m going to leave. You may have a fancy plane ticket, but I know how to trek it in the wilds. Acorn won't fail me now- we have a connection. We are going to ride off into the sunset like a rebellious little girl and the pony the world gave up on. I’ll survive on mushrooms and dirt until you find me half-dead in a ditch somewhere in a year or two, and during my funeral, you’re going to smudge your mascara crying in regret, over and over: ‘It would have been different if we didn’t get the clown! I should have listened; I should have listened!” and then you’re never going to be able to look at those damn clown shoes without thinking about what you’ve done.”

Rose just smiled back up at him as he gave a curt nod and spun on his feet away from the house again, probably to sit in a nook for an hour or so before finding a way to sneak back into the house and burn the shoes (if they even existed) without being noticed.

“My mascara is waterproof, brother dearest! When you die the shoes will rot slower than your corpse!"

He flashed a vulgar gesture, and she snickered.

It had been a week since their first clown-related argument when Dirk and Rose were standing, side by side and wordless next to each other, by the ever-warping fence that lined their unofficial-official parking lot. They'd been waiting 15 minutes for the clown to arrive, and while he wasn't late yet, he most certainly wasn’t early. A welcome wind breezed past. The weather hadn’t cleared up in at least two weeks, and while it didn't bother Dirk, it seemed to be taking a toll on the wood. The fence under his hands was damp, and it was definitely not because he was sweating; it was just the dreary humidity.

Much to his amusement, Rose did not mention the fact that Dirk was dressed to the nines in an outrageous, orange, hand-me-down three-piece suit. Much to Rose’s amusement, Dirk did not fit in the outrageous, orange, hand-me-down three-piece suit. She wasn't sure how he managed to dig it out of the attic in the first place, but she respected the play.

The past week had been a nightmare to nearly every party involved. It didn’t take long for Dirk to find a way to melt the clown shoes, leaving the living room smelling like rubber and with an envelope on the mantle with the exact amount of money that specific brand, size, and color of shoe cost Rose to order (factoring in shipping). He assumed his punishment would come in having to claw the melted plastic off the bricks of their chimney, but the next day, to his abject horror, he found Rose lovingly scraping the remnants out of the last cracks in the stone. The rancid rubber stench had been replaced by a battalion of rosy pink Cotton Candy Surprise, Buttered Popcorn, and Cupcake Cults cented candles. It smelled like the circus. He gagged and skulked away.

The next day, Roxy had taken up a sudden interest in juggling and pulled him out into the yard to practice with their new clubs in the little free-time he got each afternoon. Whenever he got a bit too pushy with his questioning, ("Did Rose put you up to this? Did June put you up to this? Did Rose make June to put you up to this?") they'd find a way to laugh it off and wink. A good ‘magyycian' never reveals their secrets!

He stayed up that night, plotting, scheming, tinkering, the hands of the clock ticking rhythmically through the hours until he was surrounded by felt and stuffing and had smudged fabric paint and airbrush stains into his skin and carpet. His fingers were sore with the jabs of a plethora of tiny needles thanks to the clumsiness that accompanied an exhausted mind. By morning, he had a handwritten apology for melting the clown shoes. Attached was a stolen stuffed jester from the Scourge Sister’s Rodeo. He didn’t get it for himself, of course; it was always supposed to be a gift for Rose. He had ended up at the competing rodeo far too many times for his liking, as Rose shoved him there every other week to do some top-secret ‘spy’ work for her. Over the couple months that their competition had been nesting snugly in town, he’d amassed quite a collection of merchandise. At first, he was tempted to start parading the Redglare-branded mugs and Spiderbitch shirts around their house to get a rise out of her, but the weary looks it got the first time he tried it were enough to nip that one right in the bud.

He’d airbrushed over the jester’s face-paint and clothing, turning the shades of purples, blues, and teals into the stupid sunset colors they defaulted to on their own ranch. He used his trusty thread-cutters to squeeze a voicebox in through its ass and squeezed it enough for it to get thoroughly buried by stuffing. Luckily, he was prepared for moments like this, and had a recording of him screaming set to a near-inaudible volume, just enough so that she may imagine she’s hallucinating it. He refelted its hat and its hair to reflect his own and sewed on permanent shades to cover the preexisting dopey eyes below.

The clowns in Vriska’s Ring, for some reason, painted themselves gray and wore funny little horns on their heads. Often, they’d ‘forget’ to set it and leave massive gray smudges wherever they roamed, leaving show-goers to search the premises for suspiciously-stained gray chairs, laugh, and take photos. Dirk was not entirely sure this was an intentional bit, and he didn't intend to wear body paint, nor have their clown wear it in the show, thank you very much. He taped over the edges of the plushie’s outfit and got to airbrushing the skin darker. The clock ticked on. It was 2 AM.

This doll was special, having been shoved into his hands during his last visit. While he was technically supposed to be spying -and he definitely tried!- it wasn’t long before the owners started spotting him around. It wasn’t uncommon for them to shower him with products and coupons whenever they saw him come by, maybe ask him some leading questions about why Rose didn’t join him, or when either of them might be free to come by. Rose’s aversion to the both of them made him bite his tongue before asking any stupid questions, but that didn't mean he didn’t have theories. This particular doll was shoved into his arms by Terezi, who had cornered him the last time he got near her establishment. It still had its ‘For Rose~’ tag on the back, along with a taunting, condescending, and arguably flirtatious note he promised to deliver but never did. (Shrug). He had to get around to it sooner or later, anyways.

The next morning, the birds were chirping and the sun was shining, and Dirk was a grumbly, stumbling mess crawling out of his room. When he went to leave his gift on the kitchen counter, he stopped dead in his tracks in the living room. The remnants of his neon-orange clown shoes were affixed to a coffee table (usually left empty for coffee purposes). They had been fixed onto a trophy plaque, with a little gold band that stretched across the wood that read “Trial by Fire.” He threw it away. (In the big dumpsters!) That day he spent stewing, curdling, His brain churned on him in heavy bellyflops one after another. Ever since he’d come back from his two years of college to work for Rose, the shows they put on had always been his thing; A compromise made after the third time Rose snapped at him for trying to micromanage her work. Dirk got to be as particular with it as he wanted, and when he was announcing, he was actually in control, if not of the outcomes of the events, but how the audience reacted to them. If Rose wants him to get buddy-buddy with a clown, he’d fucking do it. He’d take the metaphorical reins of leadership and whip that clown into shape. He’d see every possible outcome, every obstacle that clown could throw at him. He’d remain unpredictable, unknowable. He was the mountain and the clown was a pathetically buffeting breeze. He is unshaken.

When he came back to his room after a long day of farm shit, he pulled back his covers only to scream high and shrill at a strategically-placed plate with a clown face, snuggled on his pillow under the covers.

This, naturally, set Dirk off a serious and immediate research spiral. Huddled at his desk in the wee hours of the morning, bleary-eyed and jaw clenched, his fingers clacked mercilessly at a notes document. Trim lines of wikipedia quotes, links to clown forums, descriptions of Ebay pages, all squished together in a neat 7pt font.

Now, they were waiting- Rose in jeans, a tasteful coat, and a dripping handmade scarf. Dirk, in an outrageous orange hand-me-down three-piece suit… Rose broke the silence first

“I hope you don’t mind, but I did ask him to come prepared.”

Dirk squinted behind his shades, keeping his voice level. “Prepared?”

She fought off a smirk. Dirk opened his mouth to question her more before he stopped at the sound of gravel crunching and a motor whirring. From behind the tree-line burst the most horrid neon green car he ever had the displeasure of laying eyes on. Muffled music blared from the inside, some sort of frilly dramatic orchestral- a soundtrack of gallivant grandeur- as it bumped and rocked across the rough roots on the dirt driveway they had never been able to smooth out.

If Dirk squinted, he could spot the man inside, far too large to be sitting at the wheel of a vehicle so small. It was hard to make out any important features since the rest of the space in the car was filled to the brim with balloons. The muzzle of the car was buried under layers and layers of multi-colored stickers. It would be near-impossible for a passerby on the road to read any one of them, since most had been slapped down and covered by another halfway across. Dirk flinched at the thought of having to clean the fucker. There was no way they'd come off without a scraper and chipped paint. He also wasn'tentirely sure it was legal. He could make out the Spidergirl symbol, Nakatomi Tower, and what looked like clip-art in the shape of a clown’s face. Jeez, okay, so the clown is a hoarder and a creep?

The tires screamed and whined as the car skidded to a halt a safe distance away but slipped through the mud to end up mere inches from the shabby fence they’d stationed themselves at. Dirk flinched backwards. Rose did not. The music shut off abruptly, and in the silence, he could hear the squeaking of rubber balloons and keys getting tugged out of the wheel and pocketed before the door popped open, and a plethora of shiny and festive balloons flooded out of the gap to flittering about in the air as big hands hopped and swatted to pull them back down.

Dirk watched in steel-faced horror as the clown's enormous shoes flopped onto the dirt below the door, scuffing around and twisting awkwardly as the man before him strained to catch the rribbons of the escaped balloons. It looked like 4 had floated up into the sky before he managed to grasp one, just in time. Giggling, giggling(!) he pulled it down, finally focusing his attention on the both of them, and flashed a grin that had no right to look as friendly as it did. He shuffled back, slammed the car door shut, fell into a deep bow, and, without looking, presented Rose with the string.  
“Howdy doody, mon cherry! I hope you’re saddled up and good to go for some Bonafide Goofs, Gaffs, and piping hot Buttwhoopin' Blunders of the clownery persuasion!”

She was delighted.

The clown’s oversized cowboy hat began slipping down his head, so he straightened in the nick of time to twirl it with his (also oversized) gloves.

“Hello, Jake. I assume the ride here treated you well? I have to say I feel a little underdressed between the two of you. I’m oh-so-comforted by the thought that my rodeo is in such esteemed professional hands.” She smirked, gesturing to Dirk. “I mentioned my brother Dirk over the phone- you remember, the one with the Gurren Lagann poster?”

The clown- Jake’s attention immediately shifted to Dirk, pausing for a second as his eyes flicked over his ridiculous suit before he flashed a blinding grin. “Eureka! Dirk! I recall. A cowboy with a taste for the finer things! ”

Dirk pressed his mouth into an (even thinner!) line, so as to not rear in offense. Just who was this fucker? Why couldn’t he place his accent from anywhere at any time in history? … Er, thats not exactly right. It’s ridiculously southern. Like, cartoonishly ‘old-man-with-moonshine meets Ms. Georgia-peach-sweetheart’ mashup of country accents. And it sounds like it's somehow layered on top of... what, 50’s radio-show host? He shuddered.

“And you must be the clown.” His tone was held back, but not in the way it usually was. This time it was carefully restrained like the stifled sneer of a Bostonite coffee shop regular who somehow hasn’t made any progress on his screenplay in the past 3 months, but has the audacity to ask you if you really need to use the outlet so badly because, really, he has work to do, and ‘You’re already at 30% anyways.’ Also, he (the man in the hypothetical) looks like the guy Megamind mind-controlled for half of the hit feature film, Megamind. Dirk had paired Roxy’s striped purple hipster scarf over the suit for good measure.

“Well, of course I must be! Otherwise I fear there may have been a very grave mistake at the drycleaners.” Jake’s face scrunched up in an uncanny, serious pout, bringing his gloved fingers to stroke at his sloppily painted-over stubble in thought. It was excruciatingly difficult for Dirk to try and watch Jake do anything without being jarred out of his skin at the sight of his hellish makeup. He opened his mouth to speak when Rose interrupted him.

“Oh, well I’m sure if that’s the case, there’s a down-on-their-luck-clown somewhere out there who is having a hard time trying to perform in business casual! Let’s cross our fingers you’re the real deal while we make it to the horses, hm?”

Jake snickered, “Can do!” and made a point of crossing his fingers before bracing one arm sturdily on the creaky fence, heaving, and swinging himself over. When his shoes slapped down on the other side, it was a miracle. Dirk was taken aback that the thing didn’t give out on him, and that he could even jump that high with those stupid things on. To be fair, if he did break it, Dirk would lunge at the chance to squeeze a new fence out of him.

The walk to the stable didn’t take as long as he was dreading. Jake was a surprisingly fast walker, and Rose managed to keep him entertained on the way there with technical information about scheduling, health insurance, and where they store the first-aid kit and whatnot. Jake listened, nodding vigorously at every little detail she laid down. He looked like he was scratching the information down in his pea brain. Dirk made sure his gait was asshole-ish enough to be noticeable as he stalked behind the both of them.

He scowled at the rhythmic squeaking of Jake’s shoes and the jingling coming off his tassels where bells had been hidden. Rose’s attitude only seemed to grate on him more. Though she was adamant about keeping up good relations with anyone she did business with, it wasn’t uncommon for her to mess with people a bit, especially if they got on her nerves. They could have bonded over this! They could have put this guy through the ringer together! He seemed stupid enough to fall for whatever they would've planned, and there’s no way Rose actually, unironically thought this guy was funny.

Oh. Oh. Speaking of which, Dirk piped up when he realized they’d made it to the stables. Oh, yes, good, finally. This was what he was waiting for. This was what he’d really prepared for. What he’d latched onto to let himself go out there and meet the clown in the first place. Rose opened the barn door, and he smirked. He took his phone out of his pocket and fiddled with it for a moment before music started blaring from the tiny pink speakers littered around, stolen from Roxy’s office.

“Do you... hear something funny?”

“Hm? I- Yes. What is that..?”

Rose swung open the stable doors.  
The entire walkway had been crowded, stuffed with puppets and clown memorabilia. Nets attached to the light-fixtures held up piles and piles of face painted plushies. Corners were adorned with horns, clubs, streamers, whipped-cream-pies, glitter, confetti, decorative bowling-pins shaped like clowns, random junk Dirk found in the attic, and a dirt-smudged latchook rug.

The horses were apathetic about it, the ungrateful shits, but there were areas around the pen (in horse-muzzle length) with chewed up Popcorn on a string, or dirt-smudged streamers. There was a sparse layer of hay scattered over most of the decorations, which Dirk wasn’t clever enough to prevent. The mess was downright terrifying. A paper banner hung over the back door. In red, dripping, handprinted letters it read, “Join us, Clown!” Additional handprints filled in the edges and smudged down the sides.

Yes. Yes. How about that, Rose? What? Did you really think it would start and end with the suit? Did you think you would get the last laugh? Did you think your dear brother would just sit and take this bullshit like a good little cowboy? Do you see now? Do you know now to heed his warnings?

Rose and Jake just stood there, mouths gaping at the sight, before Rose remembered to click her jaw shut. Dirk snickered and strode over to stand next to them. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of decorating the stables for our guest. It's not every day that I get an opportunity to express my appreciation of the comedic arts, and I thought it may make him feel more at home.”

Rose spun to face him, eyes dark and scary but mouth twisted into a wonky smile. Her fingers flexed and unflexed like claws retracting before she took a deep breath, squeezed her fists tight, and released. She regained her posture and gave Dirk a Look. He just smiled back.

“A- Ah. Dirk, this is lovely! I’m so glad you’ve decided to welcome in our new guest with open arms!” Her chest rose and fell in a strangled breath. “How about you get Jake acquainted with our horses while I grab lunch, hm?”

Dirk, glowing in this victory, mercifully allowed Rose an escape. “It would be my pleasure.”

She pursed her lips, shot an approximation of a smile at Jake, and half-stormed, half-clacked her way out the stable doors, leaving just Dirk and the clown.

Jake hardly reacted at her leave, entranced by a corner with a series Dirk particularly hated of blue clown-shaped cookie jars with gauged out eyes. Flies were swarming into one of the cracks. It should have been, in all manners of the word, revolting, but when Jake slowly turned to Dirk, he was beaming.

“Jumping Jesosphat, Dirk!!! I know Rose had mentioned your, er, enjoyment of the fine arts of clownery, but I wasn’t one to suspect it would go this far!”

Dirk opened his mouth but stumbled on a response. What the fuck was wrong with this dude? Any sane person would have found an excuse to high-tail it the minute they heard music. Did he have to try harder, or was Jake just extremely good at pretending he wasn’t put off by the top tier psycho-killer behavior he was witnessing there? Had Jake not yet suspected he would get dismembered the second there weren’t witnesses? Did he not feel painfully and horrifyingly on the spot like this? What the fuck, man. Wait- shit- he was still talking.

“And the attention to detail! Criminy, look, that one’s even got its own balloon!”

The balloon (attached to what Dirk assumed was a 100% real haunted doll) had a photograph of a horse on it, to stick to theme. “Er. Right. You haven’t even noticed my sorting of the Augustes. Each one with their own authoritative Whiteface. Please try to be more observant next time.” Dirk crossed his arms, gesturing around the room as awkwardly as possible. A horse snorted.

Jake took a pause, and the room got as quiet as it could be with a constant laugh cycle in the background. The noise started to grate on Dirk, so he clicked it off. Then it was silent. Silent as Jake scanned the room again, still gaping, eyes feverishly darting from one monstrosity to the next. Dirk could almost make out where his vision bore into the stacks of cushions some items were stacked over. Dirk was starting to shift in the uncomfortable silence and started considering whether he should turn the cackling back on. Before he realized what he was doing, his mouth opened of its own volition.

“I’m sure, Jake, having taken the plunge into the magical kingdom of rodeo clowning, you’ll be familiar with the classic dichotomy of the clowns, Whiteface and Auguste. I don’t know why I even bother to ask, really, other than to extend the righteous hand of civil conversation from me to you. I can feel you taking it now- there’s no need to respond; I’d actually prefer if you didn’t. You’re here to do your job, and you can’t be expected to waste your energy humoring someone who's not the audience, can you?”

They stood at an impasse for a second. Jake had scrunched up his face into concern, tugging at his collar like he was unsure whether or not he was allowed to speak. Before he could find out, Dirk was already continuing.

“See? Just like that. Good listening, Jake. It would be remiss of me to say I wasn’t pleased… But I’m not. It seems you think you’ve passed your first test. I have to regrettably inform you that you’ve gone and misled yourself, lost yourself in the sauce of expectation. Since when was an Auguste clown, such as yourself, known for being any competent at following directions? Not to mention directions coming from their very own superior? I know, most likely, you were looking to go with the safest bet, with whatever would make your potential employer pinch your little cheeks with how good you’re being, but you failed to recognize one important truth.

Clownery isn’t just a profession. It is neither mine nor yours, really, though you’re the one in the costume. Clownery, by all means… is a way of life. It's an ideal, a golden standard cutout of a person. What do you mean when you call yourself a clown? Do you only call yourself a clown while you’re at work, all gussied up? I would hope not. You’re a clown all the damn time. You’re a clown from sunup to sundown and you’re a clown in your sleep. And not just any clown, you’re Auguste. Or, you try to be.

I can tell you’re Auguste by your makeup. What amateur clown-watcher wouldn't be able to identify one of the main three clown types by their facepaint alone? You, of course, having a clean face outside of your muzzle, eyes and nose. Those stark black outlines, cherry red lips, reminiscent of centuries of brilliant minds. Hundreds of years of tradition, history, culture. Remember Grimaldi, Jake? History has forgotten Grimaldi. But Grimaldi has birthed you from clay, molded you, forged you, and so obviously, it's only natural for you to repay him by making yourself in his image.

Do as others have done before you. George L. Fox, the first true Auguste inspired by Grimaldi, took to the stage and adopted the way of the clown, the archetype. Auguste, the fool, the baffling buffoon, the baby bumpkin of hope and whimsy. The hapless puppy eagerly chewing at the pant leg of fate, snuffling at bugs and dubiously potty-trained.”

Jake snorted and crossed his arms.

“Auguste- Slapstick and silly, yet rude and grotesque. An anarchist. Sometimes clever and underhanded; derived from the common clown- the clown, of course, being silly and blundering. The clown, a product of the Harlequinade, is mischievous to the point of animosity, of separating lovers for the sake of it, of chaos. All for the bidding of Pantaloon, greedy and foolish, father of maiden Columbine. The clown has always been subservient, hasn’t it, Jake? And wouldn’t you agree, then, that it's only natural for there to be someone the clown is subservient to?”

“Dirk-”

“Enter Peirrot: hapless, sensitive, an artist. One of the original archetypes of the commedia dell'arte. He cried with the plight of the revolutionary people. His tragic struggle to secure a spot in bourgeois society, one that alienates and punishes his soulful naiveté. Pierrot the ultimate pussyboy poet. Nobody wants anything to do with Pierrot. Why would they? Pierrot has brought nothing to the table but a bag of flour to rub on his face and a mixtape he made for the harlequin’s girlfriend. Harlequin’s girlfriend Columbina, who just happens to be his ex-wife. Yeah, that's right, Pierrot’s ALSO a pushy niceguy. Actually, I take that back. It’s a miracle he’s attracted to women at all. Unrealistic writing, Comedia, 2 out of 5 horseshoes for you.”

“Dirk-”

Dirk could feel his hapless nights scrolling through Wikipedia as they retched back up through his throat only to spew a never-ending stream of word-vomit. But.. This word vomit was fine, right? Obviously it's not him embarrassing himself in front of a new coworker. This is simply a character he’s playing, someone even he knows he would be disgusted by. Of course Jake couldn’t laugh at him like this, he’d be laughing with him! ... Right?

Jake pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows. He pushed himself off the stable he was leaning against to face Dirk, shoes carefully positioned as to not slap down on any precious memorabilia. Behind him, Maplehoof is glaring at this entire ordeal. He really did take after Rose like that.

“- And of course, just as the harlequin metamorphosed into a bastardization of himself as the clown, Pierrot followed suit, letting time rip and tear his pompous, powdery asshole into something more easily digestible for the modern drivel. This new clown, of course, would be the whiteface. It's a stupid name, given due to the fact that he has, for some ungodly reason, kept his pale powdery face and neck from Peirrot, and he’s got an- get this- even stupider concept to back it up.

“Diiiiirk.”

“Intelligent, sophisticated, nothing like his ugly cousin Bozo, the scientifically named, Grotesque Whiteface clown. Bozo the Clown is a bastardization of what he was supposed to represent. Bozo the Clown is just an Auguste with different makeup. What the hell, Bozo? Just go full in, one way or the other. Bozo doesn’t ne-“

“Dirk!!!”

“Do not interrupt me. I’m finally getting somewhere with this. Bozo the Clown doesn’t need to branch out! There’s nothing in LA for Bozo the Clown; even I can tell him that much.”

“Tralalalalalaaaa!”

-“And really, if Bozo didn’t want to be stuck in a clown box with his clown family any longer, he could have at least made an effort to-“

Dirk was cut off when a spray of water shot him directly on the nose, muddling up the bottom of his shades. “Ack!”

When he looked up, Jake was standing awfully smug, holding out the plastic flower brooch detached from his jacket. His other hand was gripping lightly to a little squeeze-bottle. They made eye contact, and he squeezed it again, this time hitting Dirk's forehead. He grinned.

“Now listen here, Strider, I don’t know what you’re bungling all on about some bumhole Bozo, but if you’re insinuating for one second that I’m a clown, I’ll have your head.”

“Uhh...”

Dirk wiped his shades with the back of his suit sleeve, then gestured slowly at Jake’s… Everything.

“Ptshh- Yeah, alright, sure, don’t give me that look. But if you’re digging into the Harlequinade, I really quite fancy myself a Columbine!”

That got Dirk to snap his eyes up, frowning. What? This fucker’s engaging you on the Commedia??? You know jackshit about the commedia!

“It's just... Ohh, you know! What a dame! Really quite tricky to boot. For a girl who had nothing, she milked the most out of her situation, I would say. And with what? The dances she got during intermission? Her one or two lines of dialogue scattered about? And she ran the world easy as that! I mean, whooo, *tugs at collar,* she did have her pick of the clowns. There’s hardly time for Pagiliacci’s when the harlequin’s on the table, don’t you think?”

“Uh.”

“Oh, don’t look so glum. I know you fancy yourself a Peirrot, and while I’ve got to admit, you certainly act the part, that would mean we’d be three times divorced by now, and you're halfway through your next scheme to win me back. Are you plotting to make me love you, Dirk? I hate to tell you this, but it's not working.”

“UuhHH-“ His voice hitched up in pitch, and he winced at the sound, coughing. “I”- Cough “Mean-“ Cough “That I’m the one giving orders around here! Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re doing a right shit job at passing as an Auguste.”

“Aren’t I, though? I mean, you did just tell me I had to throw a monkey wrench into everything, didn’t you?”

“I... Uh, it doesn’t count if I have to tell you to, dude. Then you’re just swinging back to competency again.”

“What? When I listened to you the first time, I was just purposefully bungling with your plans to get me to mess around, now wasn’t I?”

Dirk groaned. “No- listen-“

He was met with another spurt of water, and recoiled. He practically hissed.

“No, you listen!” Jake was practically giggling now. Giggling like a little girl. It was stupid. “Of course if you want me to play along here for the bit, I’ll comply. It’s not like we have anything solid to work with yet for the show! I’ll just need you to talk significantly less while you do it, preferably. Though, if you are itching to wrap me up in your little puppet strings, note again that it is in fact Rose who is employing me. If anyone’s pulling them around, it’s got to be her!”

“Were you faking your southern accent?”

“Ahbviously.”

Dirk snorted, then immediately stifled it, pinching his mouth together again. “You think you can understand the intricacies of my marrionettes? You truly believe you, Jake the Rodeo Clown, can handle the sheer, mighty girth of my puppeteering? Psh- Okay. What you failed to realize already is that I’ve predicted and accounted for you saying that. In fact, I’ve predicted all of your actions to a T so far, down to the minute. You’re almost painfully predictable, and I, Dirk, am-“

Jake spurted out another spray from his flower, and this time, Dirk jolted and dodged to the side, failing his arms not unlike an elementary schooler pretending to be a ninja. Jake let out a bark of a laugh, throwing his head back at the show. Dirk’s face was hot, and he tried his best to turn his pout into a scowl. “See? Predicted.”  
“Roger that! Silly me! I’m sorry, I should know better than to doubt a fella next time! Especially one with such catlike reflexes!”

Dirk sniffed. “Mm. Right. Well... As long as we’ve reached a mutual agreement that this is my show, and you’ve graciously chosen to put your faith in me to run it successfully, as I have been for the past six months, it seems like we’ve made it smack-dab to the center of Same Pageville. If Rose tries to convince you otherwise, you have full permission to call her a wench and abscond.”

“If I try to do what?” Dirk tensed up at the sound of Rose’s voice sing-songing from the storage. In an instant, she kicked down the door, letting a couple stupidly-placed banners get torn in half in the process and squishing some valuable novelty stuffies into the corners.

Her arms were full with paper bags- three of them to share. One for her, one for Jake, and one, Dirk realized after she handed it to him, filled with treats for the horses. Fantastic.

He made himself busy, scuffling awkwardly against the stables, handing off a couple treats to Mapleshade, Maplehoof’s distant cousin. Rose took a second to assess the clutter on the ground before getting about rearranging junk like it was a puzzle game. Eventually, she was lounged back in the lap of a life sized sack mannequin who’s arms she’d draped around her shoulders lovingly. Jake opted for sitting criss-cross in the dirt.

While they were discussing their scheduling, rates, and insurance, Dirk pretended not to listen. He did not hear when Rose made a passing bite at Jake’s car, and he especially did not cough down a snicker when Jake casually mentioned her shoe had been untied for the past half-hour. Eventually, she got up with some excuse about drinks.

As she passed, she tugged his ear while Jake was making himself busy with his sandwich. Her voice dropped, cold. “I hope you know, dear brother, that you are sleeping in this stable until you can show me it is spotless.”

Ah, right. Fuck.

Consider checking out this awesome [speedpaint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnJvogXBo1o) by [Elsenborn](https://elsenborn.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!  


  
  


(Mutton Busting Tavvy by Elsenborn!)


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